


bumping uglies

by sleap



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O, Anal Sex, Heat Cycles, Knotting, Murder, Omega!Jason, Omegaverse, Other, PWP, Reader has a dick, but it is a joke, reader isnt gendered, this is a weirdly horny joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 06:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20326795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleap/pseuds/sleap
Summary: it's almost hilarious. scratch that—itishilarious. crystal lake's resident masked murderfiend no doubt wants you dangling off the business end of his wicked looking machete, no innuendo intended, but he's apparently just too damn horny to function right now.not that you're really in any place to judge.





	bumping uglies

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i dont want to fuck jason voorhees  
double disclaimer: a/b/o is hilarious to me

this isn't what you were expecting in coming out here. it wasn't what anyone was expecting, you bet. not your now-dead 'friends', and certainly not their currently fleeing killer.

see—

the whole set-up was a nightmarishly bad idea to begin with. you and your buddies wanted to go prowl that old camp nearby, at night, with minimal supplies. you were all a bunch of young, virile, dumb-as-shit alphas asking each other "_what's the worst that could happen?_", and it's just come down to you, the sole survivor, with a fresh and intimate understanding of precisely what the worst that could happen would be.

the _worst_ that could happen is that your ruckus would end up attracking a hulking menace with a machete that seemed bound and determined to put an end to your tomfoolery.

the _worst_ that could happen is that you were all forced to scatter after realizing that hitting this guy only pissed him off, and pissing him off got him swinging.

the _worst_ that could happen is that now you have blood on your coolest jacket and you can't even go home and sleep this ordeal off because, right as you were watching the masked man finish up skewering some guy you fostered a tenuous and fake friendship for to farm clout, you watched him turn to you, stare holes into you from ten feet away, and then turn, and ske-fucking-_daddle_, like _you're_ the unhinged killer around here.

so, obviously you have to go investigate.

he's scrambled off towards the safety of a row of dilapidated cabins, and initially you're bummed because you can't tell which one he might be hiding in, and then you smell it. it, in this instance, being the warm and heady musk of an omega in heat.

it takes a little longer than you'd like to admit for all the pieces to fit themselves together in your head.

"holy shit, that's vile." you remark out loud when it finally dawns on you that jason voorhees is a sweaty, fuck-starved omega, as if doing so might extinguish the want in you that's starting to rev like a busted lawnmower that wants to ruin your life. "m'kay, man. that's your business, i guess." only, your feet are still moving and your lips are parted so you can better scent the air. unfortunately, you were about to make this your business, too. _sorry god_, you mouth skyward, following that sweet hormonal stink like it's your only purpose in life. 

you end up a couple steps past the doorway of one, staring down at where this mute murderman has himself practically offered up, supine, palming himself through his grody trousers. you would guess, from his sudden twitch, that he's startled to see you actually follower him back, but you're not about to try and get into this dude's head. at any rate, although his free hand is still clutching the hilt of his weapon (the machete, not the dick), he's not making any move to kebab you. so. that's a plus, right?

oh, you can _really_ smell him now. mud and rot and want and need and it's—

_fuck_, it's disgusting. he's disgusting, and objectively you know this, and yet, as you stand there in all your befuddlement, looking down at this gnarly, needy undead murderfiend, the curse of your chadly biology makes it so that you swear you've never seen anything more tempting in your whole life. scout's honor, right hand to god, the whole nine yards.

"is this it? are we fucking?" you ask. you're holding yourself up against the wall with one hand and trying to keep a distance because otherwise you're scared you might do something to shatter whatever weird lust-stupor he's in and find yourself back at square one. it's hard, though. _stupid hard_. the pheromones rolling off of him have you ready to act out in some unspeakably nasty ways, and suddenly you understand what all those romance novelists are getting at when they wax lyrical about alphas and their carnal urges. you're feeling _pretty_ fucking carnal. 

he, of course, does not respond, and that has you almost as nervous as you were when the guy was actively trying to staple you to a tree with that machete. poor communication does _not_ a good fuck make. you chastise yourself, then, for being so naive as to think that this situation could in any way constitute _a good fuck_. what you're about to do is just going to be weird. that's it. most likely enjoyable for the both of you considering the current circumstances, but still weird. 

"dude i really wanna know if we're, like, on the same page here." you press. you're right about to take a timeout to force yourself out of that mildew-y cabin to suck some fresh air into your system when, in the light of the full moon that could almost be romantic were you with literally any other human being on the planet right then, you vaguely saw him lean back into the cot (which was comically undersized compared to him) and spread his legs just a bit more, giving himself an insistent squeeze. almost as if he hated to do it, he let go of the machete so he could paw at the cot for you to see. 

it's almost hilarious. scratch that—it _is_ hilarious. crystal lake's resident masked murderfiend no doubt wants you dangling off the business end of his wicked looking machete, no innuendo intended, but he's apparently just too damn horny to function right now. 

not that you're really in any place to judge. this is doing a number of things for you that you'd hesitate to admit to in polite company. fortunately, your current company is anything _but_ polite.

you come to stand right at the edge of the cot, looking down at him. you can hear his heavy breathing and your own staccato heartbeat and not much else as you swallow your initial hesitance and get down to the dirty. sure, he's a bloodthirsty maniac, but _you're_ the alpha here. you try not to think about how that definitely didn't stop him from killing the others while you navigate the zip and button on his pants and then proceed to wrangle them down to his ankles. you see that you're not going to be able to wriggle those bad boys off completely with his boots in the way like that, so you just leave him that way. you're not trying to see this man's toes.

you're both in luck that he's going commando, so there's not an extra layer of clothing to worry about. you nudge him back so that you can fit your knees onto the cot, and when you're finally able to crouch there you're aware of the same generous amounts of pungent wetness on the threadbare, shitty mattress as there was on his bottoms. this guy must hurting to have already oozed so much. 

"jesus christ, dude." you mutter, fumbling around in the abysmal lighting in order to get a better mental map of the hole you're about to drill. your hands are wet in under five seconds of methodical prodding, fingers greased up by the veritable swamp of gooey omega fuck-slime that this poor man's been secreting. you're not even trying to be particularly sexy in your ministrations, but every poke and graze has him arching upwards into you with a neediness that would be downright obnoxious if it wasn't doing such awesome things for your ego. you slow it down a little, start inexpertly teasing him. you're not, like, _amazing_ at this, no better than someone with your amount of experience should be, but it'd be hard to guess that from the way your decaying dalliance is rocking into you and...gurgling? he's gurgling. you're pretty sure that's a good sign, but it freaks you out enough in that split second that you tear your drenched hand away. 

he's not a fan of that decision. the man under you tenses and releases this noise that's so pathetic and betrayed that you instinctively feel like pure shit for ruining his vibes like that for all of maybe three seconds. you put your hand back and he quiets down (besides the gurgling moans, of course). it's still bogus that he won't talk you through this, but by now you've figured that this horny serial killer is probably, hopefully going to be content with whatever manner of fucking that he gets, so long as he gets it. at the end of the day, he's just a weird, pent-up omega. with a body count.

you have _got_ to stop reminding yourself of that.

you focus on his dick so you don't have to think about the death thing. it's warmer than the rest of him, which is, as you find out after groping up under his filthy clothing, off-puttingly clammy and a little under room temperature. his dick is, insofar as you can surmise just by feeling him up some more, proportional to the rest of him, achingly hard, and surprisingly not rotting off him or something equally horrific. you're not sure what you were expecting exactly, but a demolished zombie meatstick or some kind of monstrous, fanged serpentbeast were definitely thoughts you had for at least a few seconds. but, no. by some bizarre miracle, he just has a normal, functioning penis. _go figure._

"uh," you cough, cupping your hand around that slasher schlong awkwardly, "nice, uh. nice dick, bro."

you can't tell whether he appreciates the compliment or if he's just stoked to have a hand on his cock, but either way his sudden bodily jolt nearly comprises the structural integrity of the cot. finally jacking the dude off proves to be the most stressful thing in the world because you're too busy fretting over your bed collapsing to properly enjoy the new kinds of sounds he's making beneath that grimy mask in response to you greasing his meatpipe with a fistful of his own heat-induced goo. people can talk in their warm, reverent tones about an omega's yummy slick all they want, but at the end of the day, it's just so much weird ooze produced by nature's horniest slime factories. you eyeball his hockey mask, struck with the desire to lift it so you can hear him better, but your first and only attempt to do so is ended with an abrupt swat to your wrist. alright. looks like he has no issue with communicating boundaries, after all.

"my bad." you mumble. you realize with a pout that you're panting like a marathon runner and you haven't even really done anything yet, much to the utter dismay of your own arousal. you take a steady breath, wrestling with your shorts. this is happening. you strip your bottom half. you both still have your shirts on and you're intent to keep it that way because you fear if you commit to full nudity, you'll do something stupid like catch real feelings for this monster. what if he's hiding an eight pack under there? how the fuck are you supposed to recover if you find out you're railing someone with the body of a greek god? you're not ready for that.

also, in spite of everything, you're scared you'll get cold.

you give his shapely thighs a squeeze, shuffling closer so that you're good and wedged between those rotting tree trunks. 

"okay. we're doing it. i'm uh," you realize how flat and boring you must sound, narrating yourself with all the glee of someone asked to present on paint drying as you line yourself up with his drippy entrance. you take a moment to gather up a measure of helpful omega mucus just to make sure your dick's good and ready for this and then you bite the bullet. you enter slowly, hissing at the feeling. 

okay, fuck, maybe this is going to be worth it. it definitely _feels_ worth it. it doesn't even feel like fucking a corpse, which was a pretty concern of yours up until this very moment.

"you. uhm. you, feel good," you stammer. your nerves and also your throbbing alpha passion want you to talk up a big, nasty storm into your omega's ear but also you realize you're carefully pumping your meat into a confirmed homicidal zombie who seems to be on the quiet side, to boot, so you're feeling a little self-conscious about that urge right now. "ah, fuck." you add lamely.

silence and murderous tendencies aside, he's being a champ about it all. judging from his earlier state, though he didn't voice it, his heat must be pretty brutal right now. if you had to guess, the proximity to so many alphas (before he went and killed them all) probably exacerbated his predicament until it was just too bad to ignore. you don't have any illusions that he spared you because he likes you. 

well—he probably likes you now. shit, he'd _better_ like you now. 

"do you like me?" you blurt right as you're bottoming out inside the guy. you wonder if they give out medals in hell for being a stupid idiot jackass. hell, of course, because there's no way you're getting into heaven _now_. your knot's there, still outside of him _but not for long_ according to your frenzied sex-monkey brain.

he either reacts favorably to the press of your knot or your stupid question. you don't need to be a behavioralist to figure out which. he's been writhing and choking on his air under you this whole time, and as you start to just _get at it_, pulling out just to stuff yourself back in, the big guy's whining only picks up. it's gratifying, in a way. a sick way.

you take a deep breath, digging your fingers into his thigh meat and watching him squirm like a worm on hot pavement. it's the least arousing visual you've ever been struck with during sex but by some penile miracle you're still rock hard. it's heroic of you, really. it's further heroic of you to reach for his boner again, resuming your prior movements, much to his appreciation which is made apparent when he grunts just a tiny bit louder, emitting this guttural wheeze like some kind of plaintive, wounded animal while you focus on getting the both of you off as quickly as you can manage.

the really good thing is that jason apparently really hasn't done this in a while (or maybe it's his first time, but you're not ready to think about that) and he's heat-addled on top of it all, so he's quick to finally finish, arching into you with a ragged gasp and squirting some sour and watery substance that doesn't quite feel like cum out onto your fingers. you wipe your hand down his front. oh, he had _for sure_ better like you now.

you suck in a breath, squeezing your eyes shut so it's just you, the perfume of a wanting, _needing_ omega, and the heat of him surrounding you. you can't think about murder right now, or death, or pain, or rotting bodies. it's a total mood killer and right now you feel like if you don't knot this son of a bitch, you'll die. god will reach down and kill you and that'll be it. you, unfortunately, _need_ this. badly.

and you get it.

your knot pushes past that ring of muscle and just like that, you're swollen in him, wracked with tremors as you release. you make this horrifically ugly noise of satisfaction when you're finally embedded all the way, letting your shoulders slouch. oh, it feels _divine_.

"high-five?" you request meekly the minute you realize you're both stuck here now, tied to each other's cooling bodies until further notice. your request is declined and you think, _yeah, that's fair._

since your fat knot has completed the lecherous biological mission of plugging up this dude's hole, you don't have much else you can do now besides wait, shuddering atop him and praying to any god that'll still listen after watching you pull that bullshit that all his constant shifting and grinding under you won't accidentally wrench your poor, stuck dong off while you're busy making an evil eclair out him. you also squeeze in the hopeful sidenote: _p.s. i hope i don't catch anything, amen._

you're starting to get worried. your beau is in the throes of heat and you a are but a slave to your urges, so is this going to keep happening? you're so steeped in the feelings of the moment that you don't quite mind the idea of sitting here pumping this pliant omega's guts full of baby gravy for as long as either of you need but if the cops show up and find you raw-doggin' the guy responsible for murdering your buddies and a handful of other losers, you're screwed in more ways than the currently obvious.

your salvation comes when he stops squirming so much and his heavy, rattling breaths subside. you're still very stuck inside of him, and he's still milking the occasional spurt of cum out of you, but apparently the wait had gotten to him, too, and now it's rest time. you're rapidly approaching a sort of hypersensitivity that hurts with how trapped and still-swollen you feel, and the dizzying cocktail of both post-coital euphoria, overstimulation, and cop fear is threatening to render you a feral menace. you don't want to hurt your dick, though, so you repress the urge to just rip yourself out of him and haul ass. tentatively, you lean down and rest yourself on his wide torso, because you're jealous that he's the only one getting to lay down right now. he's comfy, and he smells even...better? worse? right up close. like foul and gruesome putrefaction, but sexy. 

if he's aware of the cuddling, he doesn't acknowledge it.

eventually, you're soft and your knot has deflated enough for you to pull out with a lewd _squelch_. you lift your head up from where it had found a nice pillow on jason's pecs, waiting for any indication of him being ready to rumble for round two. it looks like he's still resting, probably beat down by the crash that was sure to follow after such an _ordeal_ of a hormonal experience. you untangle yourself from the napping omega. there's a loud, almost unstoppable instinct in you to jump back onto that hunk of primo manflesh, seek out the gland on his neck and chomp a claiming bite right then and there, but it's easy enough to ignore when you remind yourself that you've got work tomorrow and also this man kills people. you're not in the market for such a high-maintenance omega.

you slip your shorts back on with the speed and grace of an olympic track star after wiping yourself off as best you can, wanting to vacate the cabin before he either woke up and killed you or the still-lingering odor of his heat got you hard and dumb again. it was fun, breathtaking even, but you've got _shit_ to do. 

you don't go looking for the bodies of your former friends. you don't ever go back to that place again. you go home, chug a half gallon of milk, and pass out on your couch like god intended.

**Author's Note:**

> if you know you know


End file.
